


Soused

by I_Skavinsky_Skavar



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Drunk Avengers, Gen, crackish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Skavinsky_Skavar/pseuds/I_Skavinsky_Skavar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve escorts a drunk Natasha back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soused

Natasha is singing as Steve climbs the both up them up the flight of stairs leading to the sixth floor. He isn’t sure what she’s singing, as he isn’t doing it very well, given her state, and he isn’t well versed in modern music, but at a guess, he’s betting that it’s Russian music of “Hip-Hop” variety.

She abates her singing abruptly, seemingly in the middle of a verse. For a moment Steve thinks she’s fallen asleep, but then, she slurs,

“Your shoulder smells…. _veeeeery_ pretty.”

There are often times when Steve wishes he could get drunk, others, he’s perfectly, completely fine with the side effects of Erskine’s serum. And as amusing as Natasha is like this, it makes it one of those times.

He’d been at home, trying to get started on writing that memoir like he’d been pestered to by various parties, when he got a text. It read _‘Rogers. By the time you get this, I’ll be very drunk. I need you to come get me at the bar Clint and I go to. If you don’t find me, tell Fury. DON’T TELL HIM RIGHT AWAY. If I’m not there, tell everyone I’m sorry.’_

The last time he got a message that alarming, it said that the SS were surrounding them and that there would be no help coming anytime soon. He hopped on his motorcycle right away, speeding across three boroughs, shirking his usual adherence to traffic laws, dreading the moment he’d get there.

It was a sportsbar bar in the Bronx, and by the grace of god, Steve found her there, sitting between two halves of a German gay couple in the city on holiday, an arm slung over each’s shoulder, having a loud discussion that Steve would rather forget he heard, about matters that Steve doesn’t find himself inclined to think about. He was glad, however, that he got to hear it from Natasha, who wasn’t gone, and though monumentally inebriated, apparent;y none the worse for wear.

Natasha assured him that she is unharmed, that she is fantastic. She also assured him, quite loudly, that she is the best spy. She insisted on one last beer with Bruno and Erich, who she refered to as her ‘best friends in the bar’, and implored him –puppy dog eyes and all- to allow them to touch his pecs, before she agreed to be removed from the bar.

It was then that he realized that there was no way of him getting Natasha to her apartment in Upper East Manhattan without that story ending sadly, so he decided to leave it parked where it is for the night and hailed a cab.

It wasn’t a particularly enjoyable cab ride, the bit where she offered the driver a chance to touch Steve’s pecs for twenty dollars was particularly embarrassing, but finally, they made it to her building, where Steve discovered the elevator was out of order.

And so, Steve found himself on a Saturday night, arriving at the sixth floor landing with Natasha on his back, arms wrapped around his neck, and his hands holding her by the backs of her knees for support.

“Steve, why don’t you have a gurlfriend?”

Steve chuckles briefly, and doesn’t answer the question, merely hunching a little forward to keep the usually intimidating, serious, intense, mostly humorless spy steady on his back, letting go of one knee to fish her keys –seized back in the cab- from his jacket pocket. Her leg drops limp, before rising to coil around his hip.

Her apartment is number 67, and as he unlocks the door, she plants a kiss right on his ear and she laughs. As much as a kiss from Natasha makes his skin feel hot, one on the ear is also annoying.

“You don’t have a shotgun on a trip wire aimed at the door, or something, do you?” Steve asks, hesitating before turning the knob.

“You should get a girlfriend, Stevedore…. She… Maris isn’t seeing anyone.”

“Uh-huh. So, should I open the door or what?”

“Or Pepper! You and Pepper would be… _Soooo_ happy.”

Steve sighs.

“Tony is dating Pepper.”

Natasha snorts.

“You should challenge him for a fight.”

“For Pepper’s hand?” Steve asks as he turns the knob, pushes the door open and swiftly steps out of the way. He hears a couple of clicks, two seconds apart, and a low buzzing sound. He peers in after a moment, to see a coiled wire from a tazer –apparently fixed to the wall over Natasha’s doorframe- crackling with electricity.

“Steve, don’t date Pepper.”

“You got it.” Steve says as he steps into the apartment carefully, avoiding the wire. He hadn’t been to Natasha’s place before, and he doesn’t stop himself from taking a look at neat, modern, color-coordinated furniture, clean surfaces and tidy bookshelves. He doesn’t see anything laying around that may explain what type of business did Natasha have for the night, and he doubts she’d tell him.

“Steve, you want to see something cool?” Natasha manages to get out among her giggles.

“Uh, sure.” Steve says as he steps into Natasha’s bedroom.

Natasha loosens her hold around his neck, and pulls a wire out of her wristwatch that she uses to garrotte him with as she giggles.

Somehow, Steve thinks about how interesting it is that even when drunk, Natasha speaks English without an accent as the wire digs into his skin. He then thinks about his troubling this is, and he also admits that yes, a garrote wire hidden within a wristwatch is indeed cool.

He whips his head back, headbutting, then raises his arms up to take her by the back of her jacket, and hurls her over his head and away from him, ten feet away onto her bed. She makes a surprised sound as she lands, her head bouncing off the mattress.

Steve rubs his throat with a grimace. The marks –he’s sure there are some- will fade soon enough, by morning at the most. He takes a few moments to steady his breathing. It isn’t everyday that one of your friends tries to kill you, as a joke.

He returns his attention to Natasha, and makes sure she’s alright. She’s sleeping it off, and Steve figures she’ll wake up with a bruise, which he feels quite bad about.

He remove her sneakers and her jacket, and figures she’ll survive sleeping in her jeans. She’d landed with feet on her pillows, so he drags her body around, turns the pillows onto the other side and tucks one under her head before dragging a duvet over her.

He shuts the door behind him as he leaves her room and heads for the open kitchen.  Save for half a zucchini, the fridge is empty.

Steve slumps onto the sofa, take off his boots, and closes his eyes. The wall clock says  the team is a little past 3 a.m., and Steve isn’t sure when Natasha will wake up. He’ll go out as early as possible, buy some eggs and bacon to fix her breakfast when she wake up with the mother of all hangover. He hopes she’ll forgive him for the bruise.


End file.
